


Heatwave

by uena



Series: The Sweetest Thing [42]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 22:17:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7592380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uena/pseuds/uena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos goes stress-shopping. He ends up with more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [princeyoungjaes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/princeyoungjaes/gifts).



It has been unusually hot for five days in a row, and Porthos is losing his mind. It’s not like he can’t deal with the heat. Everything below forty degrees is more or less fine with him, even though the apartment building doesn’t have a ventilation system.

Porthos is good, really, he is.

It’s Athos; and, to a degree - ahaha - Aramis.

Because Athos is melting, and Aramis keeps giving his best not to lick him. At least that’s how it looks to Porthos.

Aramis has been somewhat single-minded ever since the morning he came into the kitchen and came to witness that glorious blow-job Porthos was allowed to bestow on Athos. It’s entirely possible that he believes himself to be sneaky and subtle in his attempt to hide his all-consuming desire to blow Athos as well, but -

Nope. Utter failure.

Aramis has always been an all too obvious kitten, and he probably always will be. Which would be fine by Porthos - it usually is a source of unbridled joy and amusement - if Athos wasn’t _melting_ , and in no condition to shield himself against the ogling.

Ever since temperatures climbed above twenty-six degrees celsius Athos has taken to wearing linen around the apartment. Linen _shorts_. They are dark grey and cover maybe half of Athos’ thighs. He has a matching shirt to go with them, and it doesn’t have sleeves.

Athos very rarely buttons it, and still has the audacity to judge Porthos’ crop tops. Unbelievable.

He’s an indecency complaint waiting to happen. Porthos loves it.

But with the heat, and Aramis _being_ in heat, there’s altogether too much unresolved sexual tension floating around the apartment, and it’s starting to get to Porthos. It’s like he can’t turn a corner without coming to witness Aramis being lustful and adorable in Athos’ general direction.

Over the years Porthos has learned to pick up on the cues Athos throws out to the patient and perceptive, and he’s all too aware that while Athos might currently look like he’s ready for the naughty at the drop of a hat, _he’s really not_.

He’s sweaty and uncomfortable and _grumpy_. It would be unwise to approach him with any kind of sexy ideas.

Aramis, while not as used to Athos’ mating signals, would never actually initiate anything frivolous, but at the moment that doesn’t really help Porthos.

The heat is getting to him, in every sense of the word.

Right at this moment Aramis is on the couch with Athos, pretending to read, while Athos plays dying swan, arms and legs spread out, eyes closed and his head tipped backwards, with a cat pressed to his right thigh.

Because Mrs Durham let them have the kittens. All three of them. Athos’ nieces were allowed to name them, so now they have a Tom and a Howard and a Santiago running around the apartment.

(Angelique is clearly far more creative than her sisters.)

The kittens are another source of unbridled joy and amusement to Porthos, just maybe not in this weather. They are very playful and very cute, but also very warm and cuddly. Exceptionally furry. Less than ideal.

He sighs.

On the couch, Athos opens one eye and squints at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Porthos replies. Because there’s just no point.

Next to Athos Santiago purrs and flops on his back, all four legs in the air, demanding a belly rub.

Athos actually obliges him, which is apparently too much for Aramis, who lifts his book a little higher in an attempt to shield himself.

Porthos looks from one to the other, suddenly breathless with affection and a rather helpless sort of longing.

“I’m gonna go shopping,” he hears himself say. It’s not like he needs anything, but that certainly won’t stop him. It never has.

“Great idea,” Athos says, rolling his head on the backrest of the sofa to look Porthos in the eyes. “I meant to send you out for a proper scratching post anyway.”

Porthos really loves him a lot.

“Will do,” he promises, turning on his heel to flee the scene.

 

Half an hour later he’s standing in the nearest pet store, disappointed. It’s entirely possible that living with Athos for so long has elevated his standards to somewhat unrealistic levels, but these scratching posts simply will not do.

Their kittens are not so distant relatives to Maine Coon, so they’re going to be _big_ when properly grown. They need proper scratching posts. Solid. Up to the ceiling.

Porthos frowns.

“May I help you?”

When he turns there’s a woman standing to his right, her blond hair done up in a ponytail, wearing her uniform vest with a name-tag open around her pregnancy-belly. Her name is Elodie and she must be at least eight months along, and Porthos widens his eyes in alarm, can barely refrain from reaching out and offering some sort of undefined support.

“Should you be working?” he blurts, and the left corner of her mouth tilts up in an expression of amusement.

“Oh, most definitely. This one -” indicating her belly, “- will need to be fed and clothed once she’s born, you know.”

He blushes and rubs his right over his nape, hunching his shoulders in embarrassment. “Sorry. None of my business.”

“Not really,” she agrees, still unflappably good-natured. “Helping you out is my business though, so if there’s something I can do, you just have to say the word.”

Porthos sighs. “I don’t know? You see, we got three new kittens, and these tiny little scratching posts are not quite what I had in mind.”

Since he’s currently standing next to a two-meter high model including several levels and platforms that statement elicits a chuckle from Elodie. “I see. Well, if you’re ready to spend some money, I could always fashion you something more stately.”

She scans his person, takes in the ripped jeans and faded band shirt, and lifts a quizzical brow when that doesn’t seem to be sufficiently conclusive. “Are you ready to spend some money?”

He grins. “My boyfriend certainly is.”

“That is good to hear,” she says. “Do you want to have a look at what I can do? I’ve got pictures of my custom-made stuff.”

“That would be great,” he beams.

She twinkles at him. “I’ll even sit down while showing them to you, so you can be at ease.”

“That’s a true relief,” he sighs, placing both hands above his heart, mimicking one of Aramis’ favourite gestures.

She laughs and rolls her eyes and takes him to her office, leaving someone else to mind the shop.

Five minutes later he’s munching cookies and drinking iced coffee, blissfully close to his usual equilibrium. Then Aramis sends him a picture. It is a picture of Athos, asleep on the couch with all three kittens draped over his prone form, and the text below it reads _help_ in tiny salaciously overcome letters.

Porthos groans.

Elodie widens her eyes at him, alarmed. “Something the matter?”

Porthos sighs from the very depths of his martyred soul and puts his phone away. “I need to go home now. Relationship emergency.”

Elodie’s eyes widen still more and he hastens to reassure her. “Nothing bad, just a bit of an, err, urgent … thing.”

Her eyes crinkle and she snorts into her coffee. “I see.”

He doesn’t bother correcting her. She’s not really wrong, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

When Porthos comes home Athos is still asleep on the couch, and Aramis pounces on him as soon as he rounds the corner - as does Tom, who has a decided preference for jumping on unsuspecting visitors.

He’s failed to startle d’Artagnan more than once now.

Porthos ignores the kitten gently clawing at his left shin in favour of the one clinging to his shirt front, and takes Aramis into his arms, giving him a good squeeze. “I know, I know, you poor thing.”

Aramis groans and presses his face to Porthos’ neck. “He’s just so _lingible_ \- and yes, I looked that up while I was waiting for you to get back here. I blame you for leaving me alone with him, I really do.”

Porthos chuckles and holds him a little tighter. “You can hardly blame me for fleeing the scene, can you? What would you have me do - hold him down so you can lick him?”

Aramis shivers at the mere suggestion, and Porthos brushes a calming kiss to his forehead. “Have you eaten?”

“Yes, I had a sandwich,” Aramis says. “Because I knew your first instinct on your return would be to feed me.” He presses a little closer to Porthos, nuzzles his throat. “Can you please take me to your room now?”

The needy tone to his plea gives Porthos goosebumps all over his back, and he clears his throat. “How about a shower to cool us both down?”

“By all means,” Aramis murmurs. “As long as I get to blow you.”

So they lock themselves into the bathroom and relieve each other of their tension, just for Athos to have vanished from the couch when they return to the living room.

Aramis frowns when he sees the empty spot on the couch, and picks up Howard as he streaks around his ankles. “Where did he go?” he asks, as the kitten meows at him, not precisely helpful but very cute nevertheless.

“He probably just went to his room,” Porthos suggests, stepping over to the kitchen unit to fix himself a salad.

“So,” he says, chopping up some paprika, “I didn’t really find anything suitable when I went out for scratching posts earlier, but I met this very nice woman who offered to fashion us something; and now I think I want to introduce her to Anne and see what they come up with, but that might just be my inner Athos talking.”

“I love that you have one,” Aramis grins, frolicking on the couch with the kittens. “And I think he’d like that - runways for them up under the ceiling and the like.” He grabs Santiago from where he’s trying to catch his own tail next to his feet, and holds him up to his face. “You’d like that, too, wouldn’t you?”

Santiago starts purring and demands to be brushed, something Aramis does all too readily and is still doing when Porthos comes over to the couch with his salad. “She let me have a look at her previous custom-work, and she’s done some quite amazing stuff - it’s just that she’s really very pregnant at the moment, and I wouldn’t want for her to, you know, overexert herself.”

Aramis makes a thoughtful face. “Surely she’s the best judge of what she can do? Because let me tell you that Melinda got quite huffy at the suggestion that she should take it easy when she was pregnant. Nearly took Luke’s head off one or two times.”

“Yes, alright, but I still wouldn’t want her climbing up ladders in her current state,” Porthos argues.

Aramis nods. “Fair enough. Did she give you a card?”

Porthos bites his lip. “No? Your call for help distracted me from asking for one. I’ll have to go there again when I find the time.”

Aramis grins at him. “You could just send Athos?”

“What, in this heat? I don’t think so.” Porthos plucks Tom away from his salad bowl, tells him no and puts him on the ground. “I’ll just go again on Monday after work.”

Athos picks this moment to return to the room. He’s wearing his usual linen and an annoyed expression, but brightens ever so slightly when he perceives Porthos on the couch. “Did you bring back a scratching post?”

Porthos shakes his head and explains his encounter with Elodie, and Athos sighs and produces a hair band, proceeds to do up his hair in a bun.

Porthos experiences a quite devastating moment of brain-freeze at the sight.

“Rebecca forgot this when she was here the last time,” Athos explains when he notices his and Aramis’ wide-eyed looks.

Aramis opens his mouth as if to reply, and faceplants into the backrest of the couch instead.

Athos blinks at him.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” Aramis wails before Athos can turn to Porthos for an explanation of such unforeseen behavior. “You’re trying to kill me with linen and hair bands!”

Athos promptly looks down at himself, takes in the slightly see-through fabric not quite covering his chest, and quickly lifts his head, clearing his throat. “I am so sorry, Aramis. I did not realize how very off-putting I must look like in this state.”

There’s a pause during which Porthos silently counts to ten.

“Is there anything I could do to make it up to you?” Athos asks, an overly helpful tilt to the words, and Aramis groans, grabs a cushion and throws it at Athos without looking, missing him by about two feet, startling the cats.

Athos, looking befuddled, finally turns to Porthos. “What is the matter with him?”

Porthos experiences a sudden desire to set himself on fire.

“As uncomfortable as it might make you,” he hears himself say in a slightly bewildered tone of voice, “you do actually look quite sexy while sweaty and grouchy. The bun is just too much.”

His words make Athos flush and button up his shirt, and then he remains where he is, standing in the middle of the room, clearly uncertain on how to proceed.

“Do you want me to go back to my room?” he asks eventually, and Aramis whimpers and shakes his head.

“Of course not!”

“Well, then what am I supposed to do?” Athos asks, a tad testily.

“Nothing!” Aramis tells him. “You’re supposed to do nothing at all, which includes allowing me to suffer in peace.”

“But I do not want you to suffer,” Athos points out. “Surely there is something that could alleviate your distress.”

He comes a step closer to the couch, and Aramis looks panicked, all of a sudden, panicked and poised for flight.

Porthos clears his throat. “Will you two relax, please. It’s really too hot for this kind of conversation.”

“I wasn’t aware we’re in need of a conversation,” Athos mutters, but he does abort his attempt to tease an answer out of Aramis, and walks over to the stove to make himself coffee instead.

Porthos feels oddly relieved.


	3. Chapter 3

On Monday, because Athos sporadically likes to torture himself, he accompanies Porthos on his second trip to the pet store. He’s dressed himself properly for the occasion, is wearing his very own pair of jeans and one of Aramis’ shirts, and Porthos can’t help but notice how very form fitting those jeans actually are.

He suspects Aramis of secretly adjusting them. Because Aramis would. _He so would._

The sky is clouded and threatens rain, maybe even thunder, and the air is humid, but at least it’s not too hot anymore.

Athos hasn’t complained once since he’s met up with Porthos on his way home from the orphanage, but Porthos can tell that he’s far from content.

“You know you could’ve stayed at home,” Porthos says in a low voice as they make their way across the street towards the store. “I could’ve done this by myself.”

Athos looks at him from the corner of his eye and doesn’t immediately reply - a reaction that sets off quite a number of Porthos’ warning bells, even if he doesn’t know their precise purpose. But something is going on, he can tell.

“I am not sure I like this tendency of yours to spare me,” Athos says eventually, an edge to his voice. “We talked about this, Porthos.”

It might just be the weather making him sound peevish, but Porthos doesn’t think that’s it. At least not exclusively.

“Fair enough,” he replies, not precisely eager to start a discussion the very moment they enter the pet store. They can talk about this later. Will talk about this later.

Athos takes his cue and smoothes his features, looks around with actual interest in his eyes to see what the store has to offer. A few moments later he looks just as disappointed as Porthos felt the last time he came in, and Porthos pulls him over to the reception desk that’s manned by a teenager with angry red hair today, asks her if Elodie’s in.

“She’s in the office, doing the taxes or whatever,” the girl says, eying them suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“I was here on Saturday already,” Porthos replies calmly while Athos bristles next to him. “She offered to do some custom work for us. Could you ask her if she has time for us?”

The girl sighs but dashes off, and returns with Elodie a few minutes later.

“Ah, you brought the Big Spender,” Elodie says at the sight of Athos, and Porthos rakes his fingers through his curls, peeks at Athos from the corner of his eyes to check if he’s offended.

But Athos merely smiles and extends his hand to her. “He really needs to stop introducing me like that.”

He introduces himself properly, makes Elodie volunteer the information that Porthos failed to on his first appearance, and relishes the opportunity to chastise Porthos for his bad manners.

Elodie grins and takes them back to the office with her, offers cookies and coffee like she did the last time.

Porthos asks her how she’s doing while Athos flips through her portfolio, and her smile flickers for the merest second. “Oh, I can’t complain.”

Porthos bites his lip in an effort to hold back prying questions. He doesn’t quite succeed.

“I could try and steer some business your way.”

The offer slips out despite his best intentions, and she grimaces, shakes her head. “The store is doing well, actually. People are always ready to lavish love and money on their pets.”

He glances at her pregnant belly before he can stop himself, and she sighs. “She’s fine as well. Are you always this interested in virtual strangers, or is this your idea of small talk?”

“He’s an overbearing teddy-bear,” Athos comments from his place on the little couch in the background. “You’ll get used to it.”

He closes the portfolio and hands it back to her, his eyes on her belly as well. “Your work is very impressive, and I would love for you to build us something. Are you quite certain you are up for it?”

Elodie sighs and gnaws on her lip ... shrugs. “I could certainly design you something and order the individual parts. As far as setting it up … that might actually be beyond my possibilities at the moment.”

Athos nods. “Quite understandable. I assume you would need to see the space you are going to work with?”

“It would make matters easier,” Elodie replies. “I would of course give you a special offer when you set it up yourselves.”

Athos waves that away with an almost irritated gesture, and she bristles. “I don’t need charity.”

He glares at her. “And I am in the habit of paying for the services performed for me.”

The _Deal With It_ remains unspoken, and Porthos’ eyes flick from one to the other, as he tries to come up with something to diffuse the tension.

Eventually Elodie throws her hands heavenward. “Fine! I’ll bleed you dry. Happy?”

“Immensely,” Athos drawls. “When do you wish to see the apartment?”

“I’ve got pregnancy class this evening,” Elodie says, pulling out a fat day planner and scanning the upcoming week, muttering under her breath. “Tomorrow isn’t good either … I can do Thursday afternoon.”

“Very good,” Athos eyes her for a long moment. “Would you mind if I invited an acquaintance of ours as well? She’s a carpenter, and I would like for you two to come up with some sort of joined design, if possible.”

Elodie smiles. “That sounds intriguing. By all means, invite her. I’m warning you though - I have never worked together with anyone else so far.”

“Oh, I’d think you’re up to the challenge,” Porthos inserts himself into the conversation. “And Anne’s really nice. Really good at what she does, too.”

So they give Elodie their address and arrange for her to come over at around two. The door to the office opens just as they’re about to leave, and an angry looking woman appears in its frame, a hint of sorrow around her eyes.

“I can’t believe you,” she says to Elodie, the words biting despite the languor in which she utters them. “Are you actually trying to kill yourself?”

Porthos hears Elodie take a deep breath. “We’ve talked about this. You were his mother - you aren’t mine. And the doctor says that as long as I don’t overexert myself, the work is actually good for me.”

The woman glares at her, and Elodie crosses her arms. “Can we not do this in front of the customers, please?”

“I don’t see how we can do this anywhere else, seeing as you’re always working,” the woman snaps at her. “I can’t believe how reckless you are! That little girl is all I have left of my son, and you -”

“She’s all I have left, too,” Elodie says, her voice so very calm that it gives Porthos chills.

The woman clears her throat, wipes her palm across her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I -”

“I know,” Elodie interrupts her gently. “Come in, will you. You can help me with those damn taxes.”

She nods at Athos and Porthos, and they leave the room once the woman steps away from the door - silenced into compassionate helplessness.

Once they’re out on the street, Athos takes Porthos’ hand, links their fingers.

“I know,” Porthos says, squeezing his hand. “I love you, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

By some sort of implicit agreement they climb up to the roof when they get back home. Because they still need to talk, and neither of them feels like venturing into the stuffy building to do it.

Still they do not immediately address the problem.

Porthos gets two deck chairs out of the storage shed by the stairwell exit and puts them up with their backs to the palisades. The wisteria Athos planted with d’Artagnan is still in bloom, its fragrance sweet but unobtrusive, and Porthos takes a deep breath, closes his eyes.

“I think it’ll rain soon.”

“Yes,” Athos agrees quietly. “Finally.”

Silence falls.

Eventually Porthos opens his eyes and turns his head to the right, studies Athos’ posture in the desk-chair. He’s reclined it all the way back, staring up at the cloudy sky with an expression of almost terminal frustration.

Porthos swallows dryly. “So,” he says. “I’m ready. Tell me why you’re angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” Athos says without interrupting his study of the dark grey clouds.

“You’re disappointed,” Porthos deadpans.

That gets him the amused flicker of an eyelid, and he relaxes a little.

“I’m not disappointed either,” Athos clarifies. “I am … displeased.”

“Quibble,” Porthos replies.

Athos turns his head just so he can glare at him.

“Come on now, go on,” Porthos invites him. “I can take it, I promise.”

“That is more or less the point,” Athos says. “Because so can I.”

Porthos isn’t sure that he understands what Athos is getting at. “Can take what?”

“ _Everything_ ,” Athos says, evading Porthos’ confused gaze to look back up at the ever darkening sky. “I know you mean well, which is why I rather feel like an ungrateful sod about this; but Porthos, you can’t keep playing referee between Aramis and me. We have to learn to handle our relationship by ourselves.”

Porthos frowns. “But I didn’t do anything.”

“You tried to shield me,” Athos points out. “Again.”

Porthos frowns a little harder. “You mean the fact that Aramis desperately wants to blow you and hardly knows what to do with himself since you’ve taken to parading around the flat half-naked?”

Athos flinches, and Porthos takes a deep breath. “Because I don’t think you’re ready to handle that yet.”

“Maybe,” Athos concedes. “But you are not the one to decide that for me. I will never get anywhere near ready if you keep protecting me like this. And I want to get there, Porthos. I want to be able to give Aramis what he wants.”

Porthos feels tempted to throw his hands heavenward and grips the chair’s armrests instead. “What do you expect me to do then? I can’t just _ignore_ -”

“Yes,” Athos interrupts him firmly. “You can. You have to.”

He looks at Porthos again, an understanding smile hovering around his mouth. “I know this is difficult for you - that working with your kids has primed you to tackle any kind of obstacle to make it easier for them to navigate it. But for Aramis and me you have already done that, and if you make the steeplechase any easier for us you take all the fun and excitement out of it.”

“That’s a nice metaphor you’ve come up with,” Porthos comments, and Athos reaches out, socks him in the shoulder.

“Pay attention, will you.”

“I am!” Porthos exclaims. “How else would I’ve noticed that nice metaphor you’ve come up with.”

Athos sighs, and Porthos takes his hand, links their fingers the same way Athos did on the way home. “I just want you to be happy.”

“I know,” Athos says. “I _am_. Just … maybe try a little less hard. We are _fine_ , Porthos. You are the one who made that possible. Give yourself some credit and lean back to reap the benefits.”

Porthos doesn’t want to lean back. He’s never been good at leaning back. Which is why he’s still in contact with almost all of his grown up kids, helping them to get jobs, or just listening to their problems. He cares, and he wants to help, and not doing that when he knows he _can_ was never one of his strong suits.

Still, he has to. Because it’s what Athos needs. And he’s always going to do what Athos needs done.

“Okay,” he says, the reluctance heavy in his voice. “I’ll try.”

The heavens start to cry with joy. Energetically.

They jump out of their chairs and hurry to carry them back into their shed, nearly manage to get stuck in the doorframe in their haste. By the time they’ve reached the shelter of the stairwell both of them are drenched, and Athos’ shirt has once more become see-through while Porthos’ jeans cling to his thighs in a rather uncomfortable fashion.

They leave a trail of rain drops on the hallway carpet and stumble into the apartment like a pair of rowdy dogs, startling Aramis who’s just returned home from work and was in the process of taking off his decidedly dry shoes.

“Where do you two come from all of a sudden? I didn’t see you outside!”

He looks from one to the other, and a spark of overwhelmed panic brightens in his eyes when he realizes how _very_ wet they are.

Athos promptly blushes at Aramis’ reaction, and Porthos bites his tongue, feels like he might buzz out of his skin from the effort of keeping any and all helpful instinct in check.

Then Athos takes a deep breath, and reaches out a hand to put it around Aramis’ wrist and pull him closer. “I would like a welcome home kiss, please.”

Aramis gulps. “But you’re all wet!”

“So is Porthos,” Athos points out. “It wouldn’t be fair if you were the only one among us to remain dry.”

He proceeds to pull Aramis in and against his chest, and then he brings their mouths together, gentle but insistent.

It takes about three seconds for Aramis to succumb and relax against him, and something inside Porthos softens, watching them. He’s quite aware that they’re both his sunshine and his joy, and maybe he shouldn’t worry about their happiness quite so much.

Because it seems they’ve gotten rather good at securing that for themselves.

The way Athos is kissing Aramis speaks volumes about his intentions; his hands are firm on Aramis’ hips, and Porthos watches a blush rise to Aramis’ cheeks, watches him go needy and desperate for more.

When Athos breaks their kiss Aramis sighs and licks his lips, doesn’t chase Athos’ mouth, doesn’t beg for more. Instead he lifts his head to look up at Athos, his eyes dark and liquid with pleasure, and Athos lifts his hand to cup Aramis’ cheek, strokes his thumb back and forth over flushed skin. “Would you like to take a shower with me?”

It’s on the tip of Porthos’ tongue to ask him if he’s sure he’s ready for that, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to.

“Just a shower, yes?” Aramis asks, followed by a deep, fortifying breath.

Athos’ eyes crinkle in a smile. “Actually, I was planning on some indecent touching.” He turns his head to look up at Porthos while Aramis does his best to digest that statement. “You are welcome to join us.”

“Nah,” Porthos says, leans in to brush a kiss to Athos’ lips, followed by one to Aramis’. “You two have some fun without me. I’m gonna call Anne, make sure she’s free on Thursday.”

“Ah yes.” Athos nods, waits for Porthos to release Aramis’ mouth to claim another kiss for himself. “Thank you.”

Porthos rather enjoys the warm feeling in his chest that comes from those words. “You’re welcome.”


End file.
